Part 2

Several weeks passed by before my uncle thought it safe to take the splints from piggy's leg; during which I fed and tended him constantly. During this time also, the doctor discovered that the fall had injured his spine too, which he said would prevent his growing much, and would cause his shoulders to gradually hump up.

Sure enough, it was not long before we noticed that a regular hump had begun to form, just behind his shoulders, which led to his being called Humpy. My father first called him so in sport, and though at first I was very indignant, because it seemed like making light of the poor little fellow's misfortunes; yet the name got fastened on to him, in spite of Horace and me, and finally we fell in with the rest, and called him Humpy too.

In the mean time, by his patience and gentleness through all his long, tedious illness, by his quick appreciation of kindness and bright intelligence, he had made himself the favorite of the whole household--even of my father, who usually declared pigs to be "disgusting." Still I continued to be his special and particular friend; next to me came Horace, and we two gave him his baths in warm soap-suds, two or three times a week, which always pleased him amazingly, and kept him as clean as a baby. He would follow me like a dog, through the garden, all over the house, up and down stairs, pat, pat, pat, and if I did not notice him frequently, he would set up a funny little squeal, and crowd right against my heels. I frequently woke from my afternoon naps that summer, and found him snuggled down by my side. I taught him to stand up on his hind legs, and beg for pears and apples, and to lie down and pretend to be dead, and several other funny tricks. I frequently took him with me when I went to ride. He never could be prevailed upon to lie down, at such times, but would insist upon standing on the floor of the vehicle, where he would pitch and stagger about in a way very funny to see.

All the dogs, and cats and everything and everybody about our establishment, seemed to have a kindly feeling toward Humpy, with the exception of a little bantam hen of mine. She for some reason, possibly because she was rearing her first brood of chickens, took a dislike to him and flew at him every time he came in her neighborhood. One day as Horace and Wangie were sitting at dinner and I was blowing soap-bubbles out of the window, we heard a terrible squealing in the hen-yard, and on rushing out to see what was the matter, found the little bantam perched on Humpy's back, pecking away at his ears, like the little shrew that she was, and he, the little simpleton, was standing stock still, and squealing for dear life. Horace speedily rescued him from his perilous situation, but it was a long time before he could be coaxed into the hen-yard again.

Almost the funniest thing about little Humpy was his manner of sleeping. The day after his leg was broken, Horace had made a snug little low box for him, and filled it with wool for his bed, and though Wangie was very particular about her kitchen, she had become so attached to the little fellow during his sickness, that she suffered the box to remain, and as it drew near winter, she would even place it by the fire of nights. About eight o'clock in the evening, and often earlier, Humpy would scramble into this box, and instead of lying down on his belly or side, as little pigs all the world over do, he would turn over on his back, with his little legs sticking up, and so sleep all the night through. This always amused our visitors greatly; it seemed as though they never would be done laughing at it, and indeed it was extremely funny.

Fire, from first to last, seemed to be a profound and most fascinating mystery to Humpy. Frequently, in the early evening, he would station himself just in front of the great open kitchen fire-place, and stand by the half hour looking straight into the roaring flame. I used to say at such times, that he looked like the picture of Napoleon by his camp-fire, the night before Austerlitz, though nobody else could see the resemblance.

Snow was another thing which he never seemed to quite understand. Our first snow-storm that winter came in the night-time, and in the morning, when Wangie opened the door for him to take his airing, he seemed to be really frightened at first, and she had great difficulty to get him out. But he soon grew to like it, and finally nothing would please him better than to put him out where he could run and frisk and root in it, and he would look so cunning when he came in afterwards, with his eyelashes all filled, and his little black head and snout all stuck over with white patches. The sound of sleigh-bells, too, was evidently a great delight to him, and the sleigh never drove up to the door that he did not rouse up and frolic about till the door was opened, when he would rush out upon the piazza. Sometimes we would take him in the sleigh with us, when he would take his stand in the bottom with his snout resting on the side, and so ride for miles.

But, poor Humpy! his little troubled day of life was almost done.

"Hog-killing time" had come, and great kettles of water were kept constantly over the kitchen fire, to be heated for scalding the animals after they were killed. As Horace and Tom were lifting one of these off, it slipped and tilted over, pouring more than a gallon of the boiling contents right into Humpy's bed, which, owing to the busy tumult of the day, I suppose, had not been moved away.

The poor little fellow was just taking his morning nap.--I will spare you and myself pain, by telling the rest as briefly as possible.

In a few minutes the whole household had collected in the kitchen. Horace had wrapped the little fellow in a blanket, but I saw my father shake his head as he looked at him, and taking Horace aside, whisper something to him, to which the tender-hearted old man answered aloud,--

"No, Mass' B---- don't ax ole Horace to do dat ar, 'cause he couldn't, no how."

Father then called Tom and whispered to him, and afterwards to my mother, who took me softly by the hand and asked me to come with her to the sitting-room, where she explained to me that Humpy was too badly hurt this time to get well, and told me what father had whispered to Tom.

She had hardly finished, when I heard the crack of the pistol in the direction of the barn,--it almost seemed to me that the ball had gone through _my_ heart.

Horace laid my little dead pet in the old box of wool, nailed it up, and we buried him with all the household by, at the foot of the garden, under a sickle pear tree, the fruit of which _he_ had liked best.

And what became of dear old Horace?

After Walter and I went away from home, a great change came over Horace; he grew silent and reserved, and liked to be alone a great deal, and finally, with his savings, he bought a small tract of land, on the top of one of the highest hills in the neighborhood, where he built himself a little house and kept a great many goats. One morning one of his nearest neighbors, on going out, found some ten or fifteen goats at his door, bleating most piteously. Knowing that nobody thereabouts kept goats but Horace, and suspecting that something was wrong, he called one of his men and started over to Horace's house. When they got there, they found Horace lying on his bed, his hands folded peacefully across his breast--dead.

The Rooster-Mother.

A LITTLE STORY FOR THE LITTLE ONES.

Once on a time there lived in a country farm-yard, a plump, pretty, gay-feathered hen, who among all the fowls was the liveliest scratcher and the merriest cackler, except when she was setting on a nest full of eggs, when she was so cross that there was no coming near her--always squalling and bristling up on the slightest provocation. She had a particular spite against the young pullets who had no such domestic duties to confine them, but could go gadding and cackling about just as they pleased.

She always appeared to be in a terrible hurry to have her brood hatched and started in the world; and those poor weakly or lazy chicks who were the last to get out of their shells, she was apt to treat very unkindly.

One time she sat on ten good eggs, and in one day hatched nine fine chickens. But the shell of the tenth egg remained unbroken for some time longer. At last, after a good deal of pecking and rolling and kicking about, it popped open, and a puny little cockerel crawled out--"peep," "peep"-ing in a scared pitiful way, that ought to have touched any hen-mother's heart. But this proud biddy seeing that he was so small and ugly, and being very angry because he had kept her waiting so long--coolly turned her back on him, and devoted herself to her stronger and prettier children. That night, she refused to brood him, and actually drove him from the nest. If it had been cold weather I think he would have died,--but though such a wee, young thing, he had sense enough to see that if his mother would do nothing for him, he must look out for himself,--and as he could not nestle under her wing, he determined to make the best of her tail-feathers. So under their shelter, he managed to keep tolerably comfortable till morning. After that the hen treated him a little better--but she often scolded him and clawed him, and he led a sad life. Many times, when the children flung crumbs to her and her brood, she would drive this poor little half-starved chick away, and he would run and hide in the currant bushes, and hang his head, and droop his small tail, and may-be wish that he had never been hatched.

Now, it happened that there was also in that farm-yard a good old rooster, who, observing how cruelly the little cockerel was treated, resolved to adopt him. So one day, he took him under his protection; he hunted grain and worms for him, fought for him at meal times, and _even brooded him at night_, till the unfortunate chick was old enough to roost.

Under his care the puny young cockerel grew strong and handsome, and my little readers will be glad to hear that he always treated his good old rooster-mother with kindness and respect. As for his own mother, you will be glad also to hear that he once had the opportunity of defending her from a fierce rat. He went at it, with beak and spur, and soon drove it bleeding and squealing into its hole.

Then the hen was happy to make up with him; and his brothers and sisters were very fond and proud of him ever after.

My Aunt's Present.

When I was a little girl I was very backward in all my studies. I should not like to be obliged to tell how old I was before I was able to read without stopping to spell out the long words.

We had then living near us an aunt, my father's only sister, a kind, good woman, whom God took home to himself only a few months ago. Well, this aunt felt great concern about my backwardness, as her own children, who were all grown men and women then, had been remarkably forward and clever, and her grandchildren were wonderfully learned little creatures. Once, while on a visit to us, when I was about eight years of age, she called me up to her, and put me through a short reading lesson.

I can remember, even now, how shocked she looked when she found that I could not read so well, nor half so fast as her five-year-old-grandson--a conceited little gentleman, who seemed very well pleased to surpass me. As for my aunt, she regarded me curiously through her round-eyed spectacles, as though I had been some wild girl of the woods. I looked down, and began twisting and biting my apron-string, while I tried to excuse myself by laying the blame on my unfortunate lisp, and my poor eye-sight. But my sensible, straight-forward aunt replied that the fault all lay in my idle, romping habits, and my love of pets and play.

I was deeply mortified, as I had a great respect for my aunt W----, for I knew that she was good and clever, though sometimes a little too dignified and stern, I then thought. I grew very red in the face, very hot in the throat, and finally burst into tears. This touched my aunt's kind heart at once, and drawing me toward her, and parting the thick, dark hair from my forehead, she spoke gentle, encouraging words to me, all in her own short, quick way though, which startled, almost as much as it soothed me. She said that if I would apply myself diligently to my books, play less and study more, so as to be able to read to her on her next visit, a chapter in the Testament, without making a single blunder, she would bring me a nice, new story-book, from the city of New York, where she was about to spend a few weeks. I laughed through my tears with joy and gratitude. I gladly promised all she asked, and thanked her heartily; for in those days, and in the country village where we lived, a new story-book, or indeed a new book of any kind, was a very rare treat. If I could only hope that this little volume would be thought half as much of, as I used to think of my books, I should be very proud and happy to-night.

My aunt seemed pleased with my pleasure; her handsome eyes did not look severe or reprovingly any longer, but smiled softly through her spectacles. She patted my head quite tenderly, and inquired kindly after the health of my pet dog, Fido. I brought him to see her, and I wanted much to bring also my pretty kitten, Katurah, for this was in her day--but my aunt, with all her kind-heartedness and piety, had one peculiarity which always grieved me--she never could abide cats.

My dear uncle was different in this important respect. He was very friendly with kittens, or perhaps made believe so, because of my great liking for them, and not wishing to hurt my feelings, in this or any other matter. He was the most beautiful, as well as the most lovable old man I have ever seen. He was tall, erect, broad-chested, with silver-white hair, smiling mouth, and pleasant brown eyes. He was never known to speak, or look harshly at any one; and though he was a minister, and a very learned man, I never was afraid of him in the least.

I remember that one winter, I spent a whole fortnight at the parsonage. It was the longest time I had ever been away from home, and when I went back, I was a little mortified that they did not make a great ado over me, and that my brothers and sisters did not notice how much I had grown.

During this visit, my good uncle used every evening at twilight, to set me up on his shoulder, and walk slowly up and down the drawing-room. I was light and slender, and sat very securely on his broad shoulder, with one arm around his neck and the other clasping my kitten. It was not a frolic--we were quite still and quiet. My uncle repeated Scripture softly, and studied out his sermons, while I thought about my home, and kitty purred. But we all enjoyed ourselves amazingly. On Sundays, when I sat in the minister's pew, listening to my uncle's solemn preaching, I felt a sort of pride in the sermon, as though I had helped to make it,--which was very foolish certainly, as after all, kitty had done quite as much as I toward it.

The parsonage was about five miles from our house, and my uncle and aunt used to drive over to see us in an old-fashioned, two-wheeled chaise, which they had brought with them all the way from Connecticut.

This vehicle, which I suppose was nothing extraordinary, seemed to me then something almost awfully grand. It was varnished very bright, and there was a good deal of brass about it, so whenever I saw it coming up the street, flashing in the sunlight, it appeared to me like a splendid golden chariot, fit for a king. Indeed, when, last summer, I saw the gorgeous state-carriage of the Queen of England, I hardly thought it as magnificent as that same old chaise of my uncle's had once seemed to my childish eyes.

It was a great treat for me to be taken by my uncle and aunt, for a little drive down the street, in this chaise, which rocked back and forth so softly that I always wondered how they kept awake in it till they got home. Perhaps they did not, but left everything to their steady old white pacer,--and safely enough, for "sober Sam," as we called him, always seemed to know that he was a minister's horse, and behaved accordingly. On the day of the visit, when my aunt had made the agreement with me in regard to the book, they let me go with them further than usual, allowed me to hold the reins, and even to touch up with the whip, the fat and lazy old pacer. So unused was he to such treatment, that, I remember, he stopped short, and looked round to see what was the matter.

I returned home through the bright sunset time, singing and skipping--took my Testament at once and read until after eight o'clock; only stopping to feed my kitten and put my dolls to bed.

From that time I daily and diligently studied my reading lessons in the New Testament. I preferred the stories of the miracles, and Christ's beautiful Sermon on the Mount, for practice--as the affecting part of the Gospels made me cry so hard that I could not read correctly.

Many and many were the bright hours during that summer, when I stayed in from play, that I might earn that new book. I denied myself frolics with Fido, I neglected the domestic affairs of my play-house, and let my dolls get shabby, all for the sake of my promised present.

At length, I found myself able to read whole chapters without making a single mistake--and my mother encouraged me to believe that I should certainly win the prize.

Finally, we heard that my aunt had returned from her visit to the east, and early one afternoon, we had the happiness to see the old white horse and chaise bringing my uncle and aunt up the road.

I, with the others, was very much delighted to welcome our visitors, but on my own account, rather nervous and excited to think that my trial was so near. Two or three times that afternoon, I stole out of the room to glance over my Bible lesson. I hardly know whether I most dreaded or longed to be called upon for my reading, and to have it over.

Soon after tea, my aunt sat down in a window seat, and called me to her side. Without many words, I took my little Testament from my pocket, opened at the fifth chapter of Matthew, and began reading very glibly,--"_And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain, and_"--

"Stop!" said my aunt, "you must not choose your own place to read--it's my business to do that!"

She then took the book from me, and actually opened at the first chapter. Now, my dear children, you remember, don't you, what this first chapter of Matthew's Gospel is? It is made up almost entirely of the hardest kind of Scripture names--many of which I should not like to be called upon to read aloud, even now. I felt my heart sink at once, and already mourned my book as lost. But I went to work quite calmly--I conquered four or five of the first names, then I began to stammer--then paused to spell them out in my mind--then stopped altogether.

My aunt said "a-hem!" and looked at me over her spectacles, with a queer, quizzical, "I've caught you!" sort of a look.

I dropped my head in shame and perplexity. My aunt sat still and stern, and awfully silent. At length, I looked up through the long hair that had fallen forward over my face, and said, as coaxingly as I knew how--

"You know, dear aunt, these are the names of great kings and patriarchs--and it's not just proper to read them over fast--is it?"

"Ah, you naughty girl," she replied--"that is a foolish get-off--it won't do. You cannot always expect to choose where and what you are to read. A _good_ reader will be at home anywhere. It is plain you do not deserve the book."

I was wretchedly disappointed and mortified; but I did not cry this time. I was too indignant for that. I did not plead for the lost book. I said nothing at all, but went out calmly enough to the gate, with the rest, to see our visitors off.

This evening my aunt did not invite me to ride in the chaise, but took my little brother Albert instead. I was sorry for this--not that I would have gone, but I should have liked to have drawn myself up to my full height, and to have said--"No, I thank you, Mrs. W----." She kissed me, as usual, but I did not kiss her back--and I thought she felt it. I fear that I did not kiss my uncle very affectionately, though I knew he was not to blame.

I lounged about the gate for awhile, and made believe I felt very much at my ease--then I went out into the garden and sat down behind some lilac trees, and buried my face in my apron, and went off into a good hearty cry. I also relieved my hot, angry heart, by talking to myself, something in this petulant, passionate way:--"Oh dear, it's too, too bad! such fun as I have given up to get ready for this reading--so much good time wasted! It wasn't fair--it was right down mean in her to set me at those long, hard, crooked names, that never ought to be read--that never ought to have been made at all! She's mighty proud of knowing so much Scripture--just as if a minister's wife could help it! I don't love her--I'm glad she's gone--_I_ don't want to ride in her old chaise!"

In the midst of this fit of passion and ill-humor, my pretty white kitten came to me and rubbed against me coaxingly, purring very softly. But I let her purr away, and took no notice of her. Fido came bounding along, and, crouching down beside me, began rooting under my arm to get at my face, and licked my hand and whined, till, I am ashamed to say, I got out of patience, and gave him a smart slap on the jaws. He sprang up indignantly, and went and laid himself down under a currant bush, to pout. Then I hid my face in my apron again, and went on with my crying.

All at once, I heard my little brother calling me, from the other end of the garden. But I did not move--I did not answer him--but only muttered to myself--"It's too bad; they won't leave me alone a minute--they are all against me--I can't even _cry_ in peace." But soon I heard his voice and his step coming nearer. Then he stood over me, saying joyfully--

"Sister, sister, see here, what auntie sent back to you! She had it in the chaise-box all the while!"

I looked up, and down into my lap was dropped _such_ a beautiful book, with a bright red cover, and gilded leaves, and hosts of fine pictures! I was half beside myself with joy. I jumped up so quick that I overturned my brother, and trod on kitty's tail. I hastily begged pardon of both, and then ran off to Fido, to make friends with him. But a slap on the jaws was the one insult that he never would forgive in a hurry. He put on a doubly injured air and sullenly refused to receive my apology; though it was as handsome a one as I knew how to make. I took him by the paw and told him how sorry I was for what I had done--then I patted his head caressingly--but he turned over toward the currant bush, and his tail never wagged an inch. So I left him to pout it out, while I ran into the house to show my gift to mamma and the rest.

They all thought it exceedingly pretty, and said that my aunt was very good to give me so handsome a present, for so poor a performance. I thought so too, and felt troubled in my conscience for not having kissed her, when she went away. I forgave her for the fright she had given me--but, I grieve to say, I had a sort of spite against those good old kings and patriarchs for a long time after.